Luminous
by devilsduplicity
Summary: Lucifer is best at two things: Manipulation and Deceit. Castiel hasn't been Castiel for a very long time, and with nothing left to hold onto, Dean spirals down into a pit of torture and degradation. Dean/Cas, Michael/Lucifer pre!slash.
1. Part One

A/N: Written for the spn_j2_bigbang over at Livejournal. This story is complete and posted on my fanfic community (link can be found in my profile). I'll post a chapter a day until it's all on here.

* * *

**Luminous**  
PART ONE

* * *

There is something about silver that sickens the senses and slickens the soul. It beats hard like a breath of fresh sulfur, and in the end it is a knife that does the deed. A flash of flesh, a flick of the wrist, and permission is not given, but it is just as easily taken.

He is Lucifer. The rules don't apply.

The suit is warm - that's what he calls them. Suits. Monkeys. Fur to be worn over a bright, shining interior, and puppets to play with.

The string is pulled taut, and he can feel the resistance quaking within this body. Jimmy is not dead, and Lucifer is bemused at his brother's decision to keep the soul alive. In possession, a vessel is merely catatonic. In death, the soul does not alight or descend; it disappears. Thus is the fate of an angel's host - thus is the fate of these oh-so-special people.

Lucifer shrugs, and his wings fold behind him, and tear into flesh and bind with sinew, and he hears the human soul scream at this new level of hurt and violation.

He sighs.

If the ethereal ape was going to cry out with every breath and every break, it would be best to silence it permanently.

Jimmy hears the Devil's thoughts and swallows his pain.

Lucifer snuffs him out anyway. His fragile little soul is like a flickering candle; one flap of the angel's wing, and there is nothing left but wax and smoke.

The body is too little for him. There are cavernous expanses within that have melded to his brother's form, and Lucifer thrills at the familiarity. He smiles, and cracks the joints and dislocates the bones of that skeletal expanse that once housed a soul and now houses a _presence_. His wings can barely fit inside, let alone the rest of his fallen glory, but he pushes harder against the body he must treat like glass, and when it is about to break, it _gives_.

His light floods the insides, burns away Castiel's print, and when he sighs again everything shudders and settles.

He has much work to do.

* * *

He begins with Castiel.

Poor, pathetic Castiel, no doubt bemoaning his lack of allegiance towards anyone of any particular merit in the cosmos.

Dean Winchester is an ant. Lucifer is a god.

When Castiel was pushed out of his vessel, he was met with a pull from Heaven, and a pull from Hell, and a pull from common sense screaming at him to remain innocuous.

There are wards in place, and the little angel has never remained this diaphanous for so long.

Castiel is a ghost.

Lucifer remains an entity inside a stolen body, and casts his brother into the bowels of the earth. Castiel must thread his fingers into the dirt and the mortar, and when he rises he must bend time and space to his will, because Lucifer has sent him to the in-between where water and sky are shimmering over a surface of oblivion, and if he were to squint, he would see a star falling far in the distance.

Castiel will remain a ghost, and Lucifer will have his vessel, and Lucifer will have Dean Winchester soon enough, as well.

* * *

"Hey, Cas. Pass me a beer, will ya'?

Castiel hesitates, but in that mighty way of his that is less like hesitation and more like contemplation.

"Is it wise to be drinking before a hunt?"

His forehead scrunches up when Dean leans forward and snatches up the bottle.

"Who's the hunter here?" the human scolds, wagging the beer in front of Castiel's face, then pops off the cap. "Take a load off," Dean commands, propping his feet up on Bobby's little coffee table and pressing his shoulders further into the couch.

Cas gives Dean that look that says 'you're talking nonsense again', and Dean lets out a little huff of breath.

He almost slips up. He almost says, "You're worse than Sam," but he knows how touchy the angel can be about his brother's whole kool-aid kick, so he avoids the subject as much as possible.

"I thought we'd wriggled that stick outta your ass last month," he says instead, then takes a leisurely draw of beer.

Castiel gives him _that look_ again when he chugs the rest of it down and reaches for another.

"Dean."

"Was tha' your first word as a baby, or summin'? 'Dean, Dean, Dean.' S'all you gotta say half the time." The steady slur of words is enough of an indication that Dean has had one too many beers. He huddles into the couch and nurses his bottle and studiously ignores the disapproving look his angelic counterpart is boring into his skin. It makes him itchy and uncomfortable, but not nearly as itchy and uncomfortable as he would be were he to acknowledge it in the first place.

He'd already forgotten what 'it' was.

Yep. He was wasted.

Dean Winchester did not giggle, but when he was drunk, he sort of chuckled like a girl. A very manly girl, whose name was Dean fucking Winchester.

And so he gives a raucous round of man-girl chuckles at the thought of baby Cas, with little tiny cherub wings and clad in nothing but a diaper.

And a trench coat.

A diaper and a trench coat.

Dean dies a little on the inside, but that's okay, because the downward pull of Castiel's lips syncs up perfectly with the petulant pout worn by the baby Cas in Dean's mind. The features blend together seamlessly, and it only makes everything _that much funnier_.

Castiel doesn't seem to be amused, but he's obviously _gay_, so it doesn't matter.

"You aren't fit to work like this," Castiel surmises without any kind of prompting.

"S'just a simple salt 'n burn," Dean protests, then waves him off in that 'only-a-hunter-would-understand' manner. Because, really, only a trained professional could destroy a cold-hearted, blood-thirsty ghost while simultaneously nursing a half-buzzed hangover. Alone.

Dean is a trained professional.

"I got this," he assures.

* * *

He doesn't have this.

Dean has never been in this much shit in his entire life, and he has been in _a lot of deep shit_.

Point one: Ghosts weren't supposed to be so agile they were impossible to fucking see.

Point two: Dean was so smashed, he couldn't even see two feet in front of him, let alone the ghost that was _impossible to fucking see_.

Point three: He wasn't fighting a ghost.

The minute he drops his gun into an open grave, he realizes, _oh yeah_, he is royally screwed.

"Not so tough without that big gun of yours to fondle and caress, hm?" taunts the demon - _demon_. It rings twice in Dean's head, and he can smell the sulfur, but it is the emotionless black of careless eyes that tips him off and over the edge.

Knife. Knife. He still has the knife.

The demon kicks him while he's down, right in the ribs, right in the side, and he definitely hears something crack, and he _definitely_ knows this isn't good.

_Knife knife knife_.

"Aw, come on. Don't you want to play anymore?"

Grasping fingers grip Dean's hair and dig into his scalp, propelling him forward the same moment a booted foot digs into his spine. His body arches in an unnatural manner, and Dean thinks, _Holy fucking shit, Cas was right_.

"Go to hell," he spits out, and the pressure on his back increases.

"Been there, done that," the demon says flippantly through gritted teeth, and it makes his words sound tight and cruel. Dean winces at the tone, suddenly reminded of Alistair, and when the older demon was displeased. Those were memories he would have rather done without.

The grip on his hair tightens and pulls upward, and Dean scrambles for some kind of purchase on the ground.

_Where is that fucking knife!_

Dean usually shouts his demands to the open sky because, hell, it's been pretty effective so far. But when his silent shout of frustration is met with the slick thud of metal sinking into flesh, and a resounding pop and heated fizzle prelude the horrendous scream of a demon being pulled back down into Hell, Dean wonders if he's not been wasting his breath.

Or maybe it's just Castiel who's the mind reader.

"Boy, am I glad to see you," Dean coughs out, then struggles to his feet without a word. He ignores the look Cas gives him, and dusts himself off.

"I told you not to come alone," Castiel says, and Dean can't tell if it's concern or malice in his tone, and the inability to differentiate between the two is really starting to screw with his head.

"Uh. Sorry?" he offers halfheartedly, then scratches the back of his neck. Guilty, maybe, but damned well proud of his earlier binge.

Alcohol won't leave him like Sammy did.

Castiel doesn't say anything, and so they drop the matter. Dean is preoccupied with his aching side and more than likely broken ribs. Cas is staring at the bloody knife in his hand, watching the trail of crimson drip off the blade, and Dean thinks that might be a little weird, but the angel looks more disgusted than intrigued, so he lets it pass. So long as Castiel isn't feasting on demon _a la carte_, he doesn't really care.

"Don't get me wrong," Dean says while gripping his aching side. "You've got some pretty wicked timing. But couldn't you have swayzeed my ass outta there about two minutes earlier?"

Dean's ribs give a creak of protest when he moves too abruptly, and Castiel tilts his head at the insistently pained noise he makes.

"You need medical attention."

"No shit, Sherlock," he growls in reply, then gives up on the whole walking thing.

Castiel teleports him without asking his permission, and Dean might hate him a little bit for that, even if it was for his own good.

* * *

Bobby is entirely too unimpressed.

"What'd you do, get in a fight with a bulldozer?"

"Demon," Dean winces.

"Were you sitting there with your thumb up your ass?" Bobby has to ask, because there is no way in hell one single demon could give Dean such a run for his money.

Dean knows he can't lie to Bobby, but he still physically cringes when Castiel answers for him.

"He was intoxicated."

"You were _what?_"

"It was only a couple of beers!" Dean protests, and Castiel doesn't have to say a word for Bobby to know that he's definitely stretching the truth with that one.

"Boy, if I had a mind, I'd whoop you right here, right now. You'd best be thankful that demon got to you first, else you'd be in a world of hurt."

Dean aches from every bone. He curls and coils, and his joints throb and his veins burn, and _holy shit_, he is so very thankful that that demon got to him first.

There is a pause in the air, a silence with a modicum of pressure, and when the crushing weight becomes too much, it is broken with a rough sigh.

"No more alcohol."

Dean blanches.

"_What?_"

Bobby pats him on the knee as he rolls his wheelchair by and pointedly ignores the way Dean cringes at the touch.

"So long as you're shacked up here, coke and water's all you're gettin'. I'm cutting you off cold turkey."

"That's not fair!" It sounds petulant, but it's all the pain meds allow him to say about the matter.

"This ain't no democracy," Bobby counters. "My house, my rules."

Castiel looks at Dean with a blankness to his features when Bobby rolls out of the room.

"What're you lookin' at, you smug bastard?"

It looks like Cas wants to say something to that, but he tilts his head instead, and when Dean blinks, he is gone.

* * *

_Lucifer loved Heaven. It was a gracious land marked by beauty and belonging. The morning chorus was bright and fluttering, and each of his brothers' and sisters' unique melodies mingled like silver butterfly wings that flit throughout the air. In those early years, their Father's presence stretched wide and welcome, and just the simple act of thinking about Him brought an onslaught of emotion so overwhelming, there was no doubt that He had heard you._

_In the beginning, the angels were always thinking about God. He was all they needed - all Lucifer needed - and eternity continued on in peace._

_Lucifer loved Heaven. The days were long, and the nights were non-existent, and fear had yet to be created. He was surrounded by his brethren, by those that adored him and whom he adored in return, and his mild mannerisms made him a favored member of the Heavenly Host._

_His brother was more raucous and abrasive than he; a timer tick-tocking its way to an end no one could really perceive. Even in a perfect world like Heaven, they still bickered and clashed like two forces of nature. The clouds would retreat, and the sky would tremble, and the foundations of Heaven itself would shake in the wake of their magnificence. The angelic armies would watch in fascination as light and will crumbled around them._

_Lucifer was unreasonably fond of his big brother._

_After they tussled, they would set everything back in its proper place, mending light and tending to the rips and tears in the celestial fabric of their existence, and after that they would laugh, and smile, and beam brighter than before._

_Lucifer loved Heaven, and Lucifer missed Heaven, and so Lucifer would _see Heaven again.

* * *

Dean is bored.

He's hurting and he's healing, but he is _so fucking bored he can hardly stand it_.

Castiel left over a week ago, as silent as the grave, and Dean has been watching old _Dr. Sexy, M.D._ reruns ever since. He isn't sure how much more he can take of this, but he troops on regardless, willing his body to heal faster because Bobby is adamant about the whole 'no drinking' thing, and Dean needs alcohol, _stat_.

It's harder to forget the fight he and Sam had when he's sober. He can practically hear the sound of glass shattering against stone, of wood splintering and impacting flesh. Sam had drank the kool-aid - _again_ - and Bobby and Dean had had to detox him - _again_ - and just when they thought he was okay, he went and freaked the hell out - _**again**_.

Dean was tired. He was sick of the arguments, sick of the bickering, and desperately sick of having to beat common sense back into his brother's demon-blood-addled mind. So he had done the worst thing he could have possibly ever done.

He let Sam go.

They had fought with fists and furious words, and in the end, instead of gripping him tight and beating common sense into his head one more time, Dean had let Sam go.

Dean has been regretting his decision for a month now.

When Castiel returns a few days later, Dean is torn between relief and near-crippling agitation. He, of course, acts on the latter.

"Where the hell did you run off to this time?" he bites out while sipping on a glass bottle of coke. He's mostly healed by now, save for a few sore spots here and there, and he figures he'll be up and hunting (and drinking) in a few more days.

Castiel stares out the window for a long while, and when he turns his gaze onto Dean, something flashes in his eyes that reminds the hunter of _I can throw you back in_, and the shift in demeanor is frightening.

"I was with Sam," he says carefully, and Dean's heart leaps into his throat. He fumbles for something to say, but all he can think of right now is, _You slimy bastard_ and, _Is he alright?_ and, _Sam_.

He licks his lower lip and takes a step forward and cocks his head to the side and says, "oh".

Castiel nods once, as if he can hear everything unspoken.

"He is straying from the path."

Damned angels and their damned cryptic messages. Dean would have rather Cas just come out and say it. _Your brother's vamping out on demon blood again, but that's not really a big surprise._ It's in his tone, and it's in his eyes, and Dean could have really done without the angel's sympathy right then; he really, really could have.

"Surprise, surprise," Dean says coldly, then winces at the sound of his own rough voice. It scares him how easy it is to hate Sam.

Castiel doesn't say anything in reply to that comment, but his unwavering stare grates on every one of Dean's nerves. Cas' glare looks far too accusatory for his tastes.

Still, Dean is curious, and no matter how many times he might have to tell himself otherwise, he is truly deathly afraid for his little brother.

"How's he doing? he asks, and something like remorse makes his mouth taste bitter.

If Castiel is surprised by the question, he doesn't let it show for long.

"Not well."

Big protective brother mode kicks in so abruptly and so immediately that Dean is nearly thrown off balance.

"Take me to him," he says, grabbing the jacket he had slung over Bobby's couch. He's already halfway to the door before Cas can respond.

"Dean," Cas says sternly. "You are still injured."

"It's all superficial now," Dean replies, taking a few more steps towards the door. A firm hand on his shoulder stops him dead in his tracks.

"Dean," Cas says again, and this time his voice is soft.

He seems to hesitate, and that does not bode well for Dean, so he crosses his arms and faces the angel and says, "Out with it."

Castiel deliberates, but finally casts his gaze to the floor.

"He attacked me."

Dean grows cold and his features darken in a manner not unlike the very first time he had found out that his little brother was drinking demon blood.

"He attacked you," Dean echoes hollowly, and when Cas cants his head to the side, he asks, "I don't suppose you deserved it?" because, honestly, angel dickery was plenty enough grounds to punch a warrior of God in the face. It was in the rule book.

Well, _Dean's_ rule book, anyway.

The angel is like a puppy, Dean imagines, insomuch as that when you kick him, he just gives you these wide, wet, utterly incomprehensible eyes that sort of make you regret sticking your foot up his ass.

"I did nothing to harm him. I merely approached him and asked after his well-being."

Dean isn't particularly proud of the tick of protectiveness that prompts him to seek out Sam and tear him a new one for hurting Cas' feelings like this, but he shakes off the weariness and just goes with it.

Cas may leave him all the time, but at least he comes back.

Dean tries his hand at consolation by wrapping his arm around Castiel's shoulders and dragging him further into Bobby's abode.

"I think you need a drink," he says while releasing the angel to pull a couple of glasses out of Bobby's cupboard. He grabs the bourbon sitting on the counter and pours it, warm, into both cups.

"It'll take your mind off of him," he says while turning around... and nearly jumps out of his skin and drops the drinks because Castiel is suddenly _right there_.

"_Jesus_, Cas! We've already had this talk." Dean's spine is digging into the counter, and he's starting to feel very uncomfortable because Cas _won't stop staring_.

"Is that why you drink?" Castiel asks, ignoring the proffered alcohol and swallowing up Dean's nervousness instead.

Dean breathes deeply, and he thinks about cracking a joke, but Castiel is way too fucking close for him to even be able to think right.

The word 'rape' pops into his head, and Dean nearly splutters out his own agitation because, okay, angel-rape? Did that _seriously_ just cross his mind? He wasn't sure whether to punch Cas in the face for being so fucking close and making him think such seriously misguided things in the first place, or to punch _himself_ in the face for thinking about Cas and sex, and angels and rape, and _Cas_ and rape.

He lifts the bourbon to his lips and is about to take a long overdue draw when a lithe hand shoots out and snatches the cup from between his fingers.

Dean is far too flabbergasted to protest when Castiel reaches around him and pours the drink into the sink, mirroring the action with his own glass.

"Dean," he says, taking a step back and letting the hunter learn how to breathe once again. "There is another way."

It takes Dean a few moments to process what Cas has just said because he is too busy trying to stifle the unexplained sense of foreboding that washes over him.

"What?"

The angel hesitates, and Dean is suddenly sick with worry. He wrenches it from his body and sticks it in his back pocket because this is _Castiel_ - Cas, the one who faced-off with the entire celestial hierarchy and told them to shove it where the sun don't shine; Cas, the one who has hauled his ass out of trouble more times than he can count; Cas, the angel that _fell_ for him.

If he couldn't trust Cas, he needed to go jump off of a bridge, _asap_.

"Hey, don't pull that cryptic shit on me now."

Where before Castiel might have berated his impatience, he now just _stares_.

Dean swallows thickly, and the angel averts his gaze and sighs before turning the full weight of his undivided attention onto the human.

"I can give you something that will help."

Dean blinks.

"Well who would've thought. Castiel, M.D."

Cas is very somber, though, and his eyes keep flitting back and forth as if he's afraid Daddy-dearest is going to strike him down for even mentioning whatever-the-hell he was even mentioning.

"So, what?" Dean continues. "Manna laced with crack is gonna fall from the sky, or something? You gonna hook me up with a new angel drug called divinity?"

"Euphoria."

"Excuse me?"

"It's called euphoria."

Dean blinks, mouth agape, while Cas seemingly fidgets.

"And it isn't manna," the divine being continues. "It's water."

Dean _cannot stop staring_.

"Blessed water."

"Like holy water?" Dean finally chokes out once he is certain Cas hasn't suddenly grown a twisted sense of humor.

Castiel nods. "A prayer is spoken in the angelic tongue."

The fact that Castiel is talking about giving Dean the heavenly equivalent of cocaine simply can't leave Dean's mind.

"Oh," he says. "That's..." _fucked up in every manner possible? Twisted in every sense of the word?_ "... cool."

Cas nods like he's agreeing that drugs are quite the 'cool' thing (he isn't really, but he has the naivety of a second-grader) and takes a step closer to Dean, invading his personal space again.

"It will shroud your pernicious memories while allowing you to work at optimal capacity."

"So... happiness without the hangover?"

It takes a few moments of deliberation before Castiel nods in a slow and precise manner.

Dean crosses his arms slowly and leans against the counter of Bobby's kitchen.

"Sounds too good to be true."

Castiel's brows scrunch up in that subtle manner of his.

"It is heavenly."

"Yeah, well. What good has Heaven done us lately?"

"Dean," and Cas tips his head to the side. "It is your choice."

The air grows thick with silence before a decision is made.

"Lay it on me."

* * *

_They called it euphoria; nectar of the angels. It was used to quench them, to sustain them, and to soothe their tired voices._

_Lucifer had come up with it one day when he had been conducting his choir and one of his brethren had been inflicted with a tired voice. Angels did not need sustenance to survive, but they were capable of having dry throats, which often led to a rough and gravelly tone. Or, in this case, a cracked one._

_The Morningstar, as he was sometimes called, had sought out God for His take on a solution. (God had been more easily accessible in the early years, and Lucifer was favored among his kind.)_

_"Father," Lucifer had said, kneeling before the throne of his Creator, head bowed, as his already luminous presence was overwhelmed by the light of the Almighty. "Our voices want for nothing but to praise You, but I and my brothers and sisters sometimes grow weary. If we could have something that could satisfy our parched throats...?"_

_Lucifer didn't look up, but he could _feel_ God smiling down at him._

_"It took you long enough," said his Father, and the angel smiled because it was really very hard to surprise the all-knowing with a question._

_Of course He would know. His Lord knew everything, and the thought made Lucifer's heart flutter in his chest._

_Now _this_ was a Being worthy to be praised. Lucifer started to hum a joyous melody beneath his breath - he couldn't help it. He was so full of happiness that it burst forth from his very being, washed over him like a tidal wave, and he knew this was a direct result of being in God's presence._

_"It is done," his Father said, and Lucifer rose to his feet._

_The light of that day was grand and seemed brighter than the day before, and it was with this that Lucifer knew God was pleased._

_He would compose a song for his Father, and the choirs would sing it in joyous triumph, because this melody would be a work of art, a masterpiece, something God would never tire of._

_He left the throne room in good faith; countenance bright and intentions pure._

_It wouldn't be until much later that everything started to sour._

_

* * *

_

It has been two months since Dean has spoken to Sam, and the best part (which, subsequently, also happens to be the worst part) is that he doesn't even fucking care.

He would say he could live off of this euphoria stuff, but he had already beat himself to the punch there. The clear, seemingly innocuous liquid packs a kick stronger than vodka, but the taste is something between sweet and sour, and has the tendency to be sinfully addicting.

Bobby disapproves, but Dean isn't high, he's just happy, so he really can't do anything to prevent these events from unfurling like the coils of a secret little snake. He glares at Cas every time the angel is around, though, but Cas only has eyes for Dean.

He watches him, cuts him off when needed, and ups the dosage when Dean's dreams start to devolve into gut-wrenching nightmares as a result of all the repressed emotions.

Castiel has been steadily increasing the amount of euphoria Dean is to take each day. The nightmares have only gotten worse. Dean, of course, doesn't remember them. When he wakes up he is bleary eyed and incoherent, and a fog seems to cover his entire countenance. He asks for his daily dosage of heavenly cocaine every morning, jolts awake when Castiel is kind enough to bless the stale water sitting in a paper cup by his bedside, and then whips himself up out of bed and asks if pie counts as a suitable breakfast food.

He is bright-eyed, but he is far from lucid.

Bobby is worried, but Castiel will not listen to his protests and Dean is far too happy to be upset.

"He's getting dependent on this drug 'a yours," says Bobby one day when he and Castiel are alone in the kitchen and Dean is in the next room watching a football game on the television.

"It is helping him," replies the angel in a steady tone, as if he's had to explain this several times before.

Bobby levels with him, rolls his wheelchair closer and seems to tower above the only other man in the room, even though it is glaringly apparent that he is several feet shorter while sitting down.

"If this becomes his new drink," he says, "all it's gonna do it hurt him."

Bobby will not see Dean hurt again.

Castiel's curiosity is peaked by this blatant display of familial protection, so he tilts his head to the side and listens.

"If you harm my boy," Bobby goes on to say, his voice lowering to a heated whisper, "you'll need something stronger than spiked angel-water to get you back on your own two feet."

Dean comes in at about that time, smiling, oblivious to their conversation, and claps a hand on Castiel's back.

"Just flipped to the news. There's been some omens down in southern Louisiana." He turns fully to Cas and gives him a big grin. "So what d'you say? Wanna send some demon bitches back down to Hell?"

Something sparks in Castiel's eyes that Dean would call passion.

Bobby would call it wrath.

* * *

_This is good,_ he thinks, and he loves the feel of a knife slipping through demonic flesh, even though demonic flesh bleeds a lot like human flesh. But he doesn't think about that part. He couldn't if he wanted to. Thanks to Cas' lovely little drug, Dean is oblivious to pain - even the mental kind.

It's better that way, he figures, and lets all inhibitions slide when he stabs a black-eyed little girl in the heart.

Monster. Beast. This is divine retribution and he knows it.

The demon screams through the voice of the orphan, and pretty soon an overbearing blackness seeps out between the child's teeth and it is the orphan herself who screams at the pain of bleeding from the heart.

She falls and writhes and grows silent as death takes her.

Dean is clear-headed enough to realize that there is something genuinely wrong with massacring a group of young female grade schoolers from an orphanage - demon possession or no - but he isn't even capable of thinking, _If Sam were here, he could just yank these sons of bitches right out_, so he is left with an emptiness inside of him that grows with each shrill cry.

He sinks biting metal into another child's stomach and twists the blade, rending demon from human and sending both into the afterlife.

He would regret his actions if he had the time, but he doesn't, so he simply moves on to the next demon.

He slips and slides, and there is so much blood on the floor that he wonders, briefly, if the girls were planning on finger painting with it; and then he remembers, oh, wait, they can't, because he's currently mangling their fragile little bodies with a demon blade, and at that point he sort of shuts down and starts killing again.

If he thinks too hard, he thinks about Sammy, so it's best to just not think at all.

Dean has gotten so used to Castiel's gaze on him that the absence of it makes him itch. The second the angel looks away to deal with his own problems, it is immediately noticeable to Dean. He pauses, distracted, and is nearly bowled over by an inhumanly strong child. Tangled blond locks fall across his eyes as young, blunt teeth latch onto his neck and try to cause as much damage as possible. Little white pincers tear into his skin and _tug, tug, tug_ and _pull, pull, pull_ and with the kind of cold clarity borne of reflex, Dean lodges his weapon into the side of the girl's neck and tears a line from one ear to the next. Blood gushes out and drips onto his face, and with a silent huff he shoves the body off of him, watching as it rolls to the side and drowns in a pool of _red, red, red_.

He rubs his neck where the skin had been ground between chewing teeth and winces.

That was gonna hurt like a bitch in the morning.

Dean spares a glance at Castiel, then lifts himself up off the floor and heads for the nursery - god, the fucking _nursery_.

Wraith-like wails pierce the night air, two-toned and bleak, unforgiving like the whiz of steel, and a dozen black eyes stare at him from between the wooden bars of rickety cradles.

Dean is going to slaughter a room full of babies, and all he can think is, _This sucks. This fucking sucks_.

He grips the knife tight and sets about his gruesome task and doesn't bother to look back because regret is a hard pill to swallow.

Castiel joins him eventually, and Dean is fixated on his companion because he needs something to distract him from the morbid task at hand.

As the last child squirms and hisses and spittles in the angel's grip, Castiel tilts his head towards Dean and settles unnervingly calm blue eyes on the human. The corner of his mouth quirks up in a gesture of reassurance.

It's okay.

They are surrounded by the bleeding bodies of dead infants, and Dean is trembling like a pathetic little leaf because Castiel has just dropped the empty shell of a human child to the floor with no respect for the unjustly deceased, and _it will be okay_.

It isn't really a lie if Castiel never spoke the words out loud.

Dean doesn't know what to think when Castiel tells him they must leave. The conversation is short and mostly one-sided.

"Bobby knows."

About the children Dean had slaughtered, of course. The guilt has been eating away at him for days, crippling him, making it harder to focus. He can barely eat, and God help him when he actually manages to fall asleep.

"You have done the right thing," Castiel assures him, and takes a step forward when Dean crumples into one of the creaky motel room chairs.

"He kicked us out?" Dean says in a whisper, then flinches when Castiel settles a hand on his shoulder.

"No." And the pause that follows is laden with a cruelty too subtle for Dean to notice. "He is hunting us." The angel squeezes his shoulder and Dean winces as bony fingers dig into his flesh. "He is hunting _you_."

The words ring in delicate human ears, and Dean _can't make them stop_.

He is hunting you, he is hunting you. Bobby is hunting you. Sam is gone and he's never coming back and _Bobby is hunting you_.

Dean feels like throwing up, but he smiles instead.

"Well, what're you waiting for? Work some of that angel mojo and let's take a vacation to the Bahamas."


	2. Part Two

A/N: This part has several more Heaven scenes. Hope you like. \o/

* * *

**Luminous**  
PART TWO

* * *

_The Outer Realms were coated in a fire so hot, they were cool to the touch. The flames curled upward and lapped at wisps of wings, but the embrace was not aching or deadly. Here, the oceans were made of crystal light, undulating back and forth, clinking together to form sounds and syllables of praise. All of creation sang glory to God on high; it was only natural._

_A back was bent, curved and outlined in gold, and when it straightened, two glorious wings unfurled from the crystalline seas and slung drops of liquid light into the open sky._

_"Brother!" someone called from the distance, and Lucifer arched his neck to look behind him without fully turning around. His eyes sought out the shining presence of his brother's form, followed the trail of luminescence that sifted through the air when two magnificent appendages thrust outward and carried his sibling through the sky. His gaze broke off and he once again turned his attention to the sea of light he was standing waist-deep in._

_Lucifer worked his lips, formed silent sounds with his mouth and let soft melodies sit on his tongue. He was writing a new hymn, and he was teaching the ocean a stanza of his work._

God has smiled on this day

Bright and fulfilling like golden silk.

He loves me, he loves me.

_The words were whispered in Enochian, strong and soft, and just as the seas were rising to a crescendo, a violent crash and a disarrayed splash of light brought discordance to the song and heralded his brother's descent._

_"Michael," Lucifer said dryly, absently shaking loose the droplets of crystal from his wings._

_"Well don't jump for joy there, Luc. You might hurt yourself."_

_Michael's voice was loud and brash and deep; a blatant contrast to Lucifer's smooth, even tones. The brothers, despite their differences, were practically bonded by blood. Though every angelic being was crafted by God's hand and every angel, therefore, was bound in an intrinsic tie that reached beyond race, Michael and Lucifer were somewhat... different._

_Michael, it was told, was destined for something great; for something truly miraculous in the grand scheme of things. He had a will like thunder and a determination as set and unwavering as the golden slabs that paved Heaven's streets. He certainly wasn't the most violent angel created, but he was strong, and hearty, and full of unfaltering vibrance._

_Lucifer, as was obvious by all others, was clearly favored by God. Their Father, in all His just, magnanimous glory, had, for some untold reason, crafted Lucifer with exorbitant care. Every line, every delicate curve, each glistening feather was hand-crafted, glory-touched; the breath of God filled his lungs, sang through his bones and muscles. Just like all of creation was an instrument of praise, Lucifer's every form and fashion was but a vessel for music and a conduit of love. He was the most God-like of the angels; he was the first of his kind - well-loved, but peculiar._

_His bond with Michael, though seemingly reluctant, was unshakable._

_"You've ruined my oratorio," Lucifer said without much heat, staring down at the scattered melody that sank to the bottom of the ocean. Already the seas were realigning themselves, shifting to the beat of a new song and forgetting every line the angel had tried to persuade it into singing._

_"Ah, well. At least it wasn't a sonata."_

_"No. You ruined that last time with that unnecessarily brash trumpet blast of yours."_

_"It needed something to spice it up!"_

_"It was an _affettuoso arietta_. Tenderly, _con amore_. With love!"_

_"It was boring."_

_"You're insufferable," Lucifer sighed deeply, running a hand through his hair._

_"That's why you love me," Michael countered, stepping up beside his brother and draping his wing across the other's back. The gesture was familiar and comfortable, and Lucifer couldn't help but lean into the touch._

_"To what do I owe the honor of this visit?" Lucifer asked rakishly, bending one of his wings to slide beneath his brother's feathers and settle around the eldest's waist._

_Michael jolted at the contact - he wasn't as obviously physical as his brother seemed to be - but calmed when his sibling's even tone smoothed out his ruffled feathers. Angels, as a rule, did not need physical contact to comfort them. The gestures seemed kind, yes, but were ultimately hollow. Michael himself never bothered to run the edge of a wing across the outline of another angel. Lucifer, however, had always been the exception. The Lightbringer craved touch, sometimes seemed bound by the want for it, and since God Himself was the only one who bothered to give it to him - a hand to a cheek, or a palm settled in thick blond hair - Michael felt almost obligated to reciprocate in kind._

_His wing veritably engulfed the younger (by mere seconds) angel, but did nothing to contain the constant thrum of light that perpetually inundated Lucifer's presence._

_They did not call him the Lightbringer for nothing._

_Each flourishing gap between Michael's feathers was penetrated by something bright, and shining, and so pure it was practically liquid. Light filtered through his wing as though through a sieve._

_Lucifer was peering up at him, and it took the warrior angel a moment to remember what his brother had asked. When the memory settled, a stark embarrassment set in as well._

_Michael cleared his throat, shuffled his feet, and nearly retracted his wing but figured that would be far more obvious than the already obvious signs of nervousness he was thus far exhibiting._

_"Well, you see," he began, then lifted his arm to scratch the back of his head. "You're a choir director, right?"_

_Lucifer blinked and didn't deign to respond to a question his brother already knew the answer to._

_The silence was awkward, but only on Michael's end, and Michael was a trooper, so he could tough it out._

_"Affecting Duma's verbose nature, I see," the warrior angel commented wryly, lowering his hand and letting it hang limply by his side._

_"I am hardly as tight-lipped as the Angel of Silence," Lucifer reputed softly, but the edge of his mouth curled upward in what could easily be recognized as a smile. Still, he gave his brother no easy way out, and waited for the main point of this conversation to come around with long-suffering patience._

_It didn't take long for Michael to catch the hint, but still he seemed almost reluctant to let the words slip from his mouth._

_"I, uh."_

_"Yes?" Lucifer prompted._

_"I need singing lessons."_

_The declaration was unexpected, and left the younger angel blinking in confusion._

_To each his own, as was often said in the heavenly realms, and the words were usually taken to heart. Some angels preferred to sing, others were taken by the ways of archery; more spent their hours in flight, and more yet practiced the fluid dance of the swordsman._

_Michael was a warrior. Not a messenger, not a peace bringer, not a gardener, and most certainly not a meek little choir boy._

_"Why?"_

_Not that he would refuse his brother, but Lucifer was quite curious as to this shift in demeanor. Michael had never shown any interest in the aural arts before._

_"Well, you see..." he began, and then paused, staring down at his feet._

_Lucifer sighed._

_"One day, I will stop prompting you to continue with your incessant stories."_

_Michael grinned._

_"Heaven will fall before then."_

_They both laughed at that, then brushed the comment aside. Silly speculations such as those were not to be bothered with._

_Michael retracted his wing and Lucifer took a step back, wading through the melodic ocean back towards the shoreline. The other angel followed, and soon both were standing on a beach of flecked golden dust looking out at the painting God was crafting from Heaven's sky._

_Lucifer was awed by the beauty. Michael... well. Michael was used to it._

_"Your voice is fine enough as is," Lucifer said swiftly, still staring distractedly at the sky._

_"I want to sing a song to our Father," Michael blurted out abruptly, turning near-pleading eyes onto the Morningstar._

_Another shock for the day._

_Lucifer furrowed his brows and tilted his head in silent question._

_"He told me He's working on a new project, and I want to sing Him a song when He's done."_

_It took a shocking several moments for the younger angel to register the fact that their Father had told Michael something without even bothering to mention it to him. Something tugged at his chest, and he reached up to scratch at it, baffled by this odd, unpleasant sensation._

_"A project?" he questioned softly, then shook his head and turned a smiling face towards Michael. "And you want me to teach you a song to sing to Him?"_

_"He's always liked your songs."_

_The praise made warmth curl over the previously unpleasant sensation, masking it, muting it for another time._

_"Mm."_

_Lucifer turned his eyes back towards the sea._

_"Anything for you, brother," he said, and he meant it. "Anything for you."_

_

* * *

_

Sam is losing it.

He's been out of control for a while now, but for the most part he's ignored the signs. Speeding? Not a problem. Picking up the occasional diner whore? A little racy but nothing Dean himself wouldn't do. Flipping out at some kids in a carnival and chasing them through a house of mirrors? That's where he had to draw the line.

Okay, okay. So he'd thought they were demons, and that wasn't really any fault of his because they'd sure as hell acted like little hellions, but scaring small children isn't exactly what he would call 'professional'. Plus, the cops had gotten involved, and that had given cause for a quick ride out of town.

He's been on the road for two days now without sleep or food or rest, and he is _really fucking losing it_.

Just over two months ago, he'd had a pretty pointless fight with Dean - again - and some stupid misconception had come between them - he's over his addiction, he _swears!_ - so ever since then he's been toughing it out on his own.

Until about two months ago, when a certain body-snatching fallen angel had come knocking on his door and had left him completely and utterly stupefied.

It isn't every day that you're visited by your friendly neighborhood Satan.

It isn't every day that your friendly neighborhood Satan is smiling at you behind the face of your brother's best angel buddy.

Sam's first instinct had been to slam the door shut in the Devil's face, and upon turning around to find that Lucifer had teleported his ass into the motel room anyway, the cheeky little bastard had asked him how he fared. How he _fared_, as if they were good buddies, and Sam wasn't his vessel, and he wasn't positively aching to get his greedy hands all over Sam's - his - _Sam's_ body.

Lucifer had asked his question, and Sam had frozen in place, and then something had snapped and he hadn't been right ever since.

The moment Castiel had showed up at his doorstep, before Sam had even opened the door, he had been able to sense that something was not quite right. He was linked with Lucifer, and so the unwarranted _ache_ that accompanied the angel's presence had been completely unfounded and utterly confounding. He had wanted to slip into Cas' skin, to bask in the acceptance there, and it had taken him a matter of mere seconds for it to click in his mind that, _no_, Castiel wasn't his angel. _Lucifer_ was.

A thought slipped into his mind by Satan himself, no doubt, and even now it makes Sam shudder. Sam has been content to keep his company with demons - has been preoccupied with using his acquired abilities to send the little buggers back down where they belonged. So far, they've been the safer lot. Yes, the cruel creatures of Hell may have it out for him, but at least they don't _want his body_, and, really, nothing was ever quite as creepy as hearing that particular string of words ring over and over inside your own head.

He had launched himself at Lucifer, all wicked fists and flailing limbs, and in the wake of this mad fury came an addling realization, a terrifying conundrum that prompted Sam to realize that he really didn't stand a chance in a fist fight against the embodiment of evil.

Not when Lucifer fought with soft words and gentle detainment.

Sam had landed a good left hook on the other's jawbone, but the only thing that had accomplished was to snap Castiel's - _Lucifer's_ - head to the side and bring a contortion of muddled regret and frustration to the angel's features.

"Sam," he had said in that condescending tone of his. "I'm not here to fight you."

Of course he wasn't.

Of _course_ he wasn't, goddammit!

"Then why?"

Sam had been out of breath, had barely been able to get the words out.

Lucifer had taken a step forward, had clasped his fingers together behind his back, and had tilted his head in a manner eerily reminiscent of Castiel.

"I'm here to detain you."

That had been two months ago.

And now Sam is terrified because he has a gap of lucidity in his memory that is two months long, and he has _no idea_ what could have happened to him during that time.

The possibilities aren't just endless; they're _horrifying_.

He had woken up in the middle of what he now knew to be Wisconsin - _damn you, Wisconsin!_ - and had hijacked a rusted yellow Volkswagen out of sheer desperation.

His first phone call had been to Dean.

Bobby had answered.

"Bobby? Bobby! It's Sam! Where's Dean?"

There had been some grumbling on the other line and a mumbled 'idjit' before the older hunter had answered, "He must've left it. He's on a hunt with that angel friend of yours."

At that point, Sam had freaked the hell out.

After several attempts to get him to calm down, Sam had finally found the breath to speak.

"Listen to me, Bobby. That isn't Cas. It just _looks_ like him. Lucifer took over his body - _that isn't Cas!_"

Silence had greeted him, and then the cursing had begun.

"You'd best get over here quick."

That had been two days ago.

Sam has skirmished with Bobby since then, has driven down to the site of his brother's latest hunt, and has followed every path and every trail that would lead him to Dean until those paths and those trails had suddenly... disappeared.

God help them now, Sam thinks, gripping the steering wheel tight. The only thing that can track an angel is another angel.

* * *

_This isn't the Bahamas_.

It's the first thing that Dean thinks upon arriving in the barren wasteland that Cas has transported them to. He turns to his angelic companion questioningly, brow raised, and can only stare silently when Castiel's entire countenance suddenly grows cold.

"Where are we?" Dean asks, licking his suddenly dry lips.

"That is not of import."

If angels had one constant, it was their insufferability.

"... Riiight." He draws the word out to stave off the awkward silence that is bound to set in.

He is wrong on that aspect, though, because there is no time for an awkward silence before Castiel steps forward and grabs Dean's arm.

"Woah, hey man! We've had this-"

"I'm sorry," Castiel interrupts before Dean can even get the words out, and before he can question why Cas is apologizing, the angel draws his right hand back, curls his fingers into a fist, and belts Dean in the side.

Jimmy had once said that being possessed by an angel was sort of like being tethered to a comet. Well, being _punched in the side_ by an angel was sort of like being _hit_ by a comet; only about ten time worse, give or take an acute, alarming inability to breathe.

One rib cracks, another breaks, and Dean can't even fall to the ground in agony because Castiel is now forcibly holding him up.

"What the hell, man!" Dean splutters once he has sucked air into his lungs, and when he coughs, he coughs up blood.

"This is the only way," Castiel says, his eyes devoid of emotion. "I have no choice."

Dean is hit again, this time a blow to the stomach, and when all air leaves him, he succumbs to blissful quiet; mute and unheard, save for the silent gasps of desperation. Castiel is unaffected, cold, almost righteous in his single-minded determination. Dean would pay for whatever injustice he had unwittingly infracted, and no force of nature would stop the angel from inflicting the punishment.

Dean feels betrayed, and he thinks that perhaps that hurts the most, but another left hook to his opposite side makes him second-guess the romanticized notion.

Hell hath no fury like an angel scorned.

Problem is, Dean doesn't have a clue why Castiel is in such a violent, pissy mood.

Another blow to his ribs, and then thin, surprisingly powerful fingers curl in his short hair and drag him closer, closer, ever closer, until his bleeding face is but a scant few inches from Castiel's hardened features.

Cas stares at him for a long while, and Dean's vision has gotten so hazy he sees two nerdy bastard angels holding him upright instead of just one. His head is swimming and slick trails of crimson are gurgling out of his mouth and slipping down his chin. He thinks he must've looked quite the pretty sight, because the angel assaulting him stops his brutal beating and instead stares at Dean's split lips.

Dean gathers up the blood in his mouth, gives a little smile, then happily spits it out onto Castiel's face.

He's disappointed when that garners no reaction.

Castiel jerks Dean forward and holds him up by the collar of his shirt, then spreads the palm of his free hand through the rough locks of Dean's brunette hair and leans forward until there is nothing but mere centimeters between their lips.

"You shouldn't have done that," Cas says softly, his tone almost regretful, and before Dean can even think, _Whatcha gonna do about it, huggybear?_ he is thrown, quite violently, to the rough, sand-strewn ground. His head hits a rock, and he almost laughs because that's the lightest blow he's had in the past minute and a half his angel friend has been beating the shit out of him.

"Cas, _stop_," he coughs up, lashing out with his feet once the angel is in range, but Castiel simply dodges the weak-willed move and flutters into thin air only to reappear behind Dean. A sharp dress shoe kisses the top of the hunter's head - viciously - and when Dean has stopped rolling from the force of the blow, Castiel is suddenly _there_ again, behind him, gripping him tight and raising him from this angel-inflicted perdition.

"_Cas_."

Dean doesn't understand. He is in pain and he is angry, and all he wants to do is punch Castiel in the face and make him _hurt_, but most of all Dean _doesn't understand_.

There is no reply, but Cas lifts him up off the ground until his toes are trailing in the dust and the sand, and then, without much warning, the angel draws a fist back and slams it into the side of Dean's skull.

Once.

Twice.

Again.

And again.

And again.

And again.

And again and again and again and again and a-_fucking_-gain.

What hurts the most, Dean thinks as he falls into unconsciousness, is that Castiel was all he had left.

* * *

He can't really say he hasn't woken up in handcuffs before, but he can say this is the first time he's woken up in handcuffs to the image of an angel in a trench coat staring haughtily down his nose at him.

He can hear the blood rushing through his head, and see the way his heart is pushing it out through his open wounds. Red chokes down his throat and into his stomach, and it tastes pretty fucking awful, but right now his delicate palette is the least of his worries.

Castiel comes closer and hovers over him and doesn't say a word until Dean, lips dry and esophagus slick with blood, gives a little sneer.

"What the fuck have you done with Cas?" he asks, green eyes flitting upward to lock with electric blue.

The angel furrows his brow, tips his head, and rests his hands in the pockets of Jimmy's trench coat.

"What?"

"The fuck did you do to Cas!" he growls out, coughing at the weight of his own emotions as they press further into his chest. Castiel wouldn't do this. Castiel was his _friend_, his _ally_, and so the only other explanation was that the being standing before him now was some creature simply possessing Jimmy Novak's body.

Castiel steps forward, looms (he is so very good at that), and bends down at the waist to peer into Dean's eyes from a distance of _oh my god is he going to kiss me?_ inches away.

"You think I'm not Castiel?" Castiel asks.

"I fuckin' _know_ you're not Cas," Dean answers.

The angel straightens up at that, reaches down instead, and lays a hand over Dean's bound wrists.

"You sound so sure of yourself," he muses, stroking the chafed skin and watching with mute awareness as the hunter struggles in his bonds to move away. "Perhaps that is best," and the way his voice hardens and loses all sense of emotion is so uncannily resemblant of Cas' 'I'm a good angel-scout' days that it makes Dean's blood run cold.

He lays his head back against the wooden post he has been bound to, and stares up at the body of Jimmy Novak.

Jimmy Novak, previously possessed by an angel, now nothing more than fodder for an unknown body snatcher.

"He'll find me," Dean says when the man before him turns away. "Sam, Cas, Bobby. They're gonna find me, and you're gonna be one sorry son of a bitch."

The ominous _shiiinkt_ of something sharp and something metal makes a million restless butterflies flutter inside Dean's stomach. His kidnapper turns around, head tilted in that quintessentially Castiel posture, and balances a box cutter in his right hand, blade extended.

"Oh, I wouldn't be so sure about that."

* * *

Castiel shudders and doubles over. He is hidden in the confines of a potential vessel's mind, disguised as a conscious and doubling as a prisoner. There are dogs looking for him, with bright teeth and vicious nails, and they are capable of rending his presence in half. He is not an angel right now, and he does not have the potential to be a human, so he is trapped in the space between; the marks of a ghost, or something terribly ethereal. He knows where he is, but he does not yet know _when_, only that Creation is still fairly new and humanity is slowly losing itself to the sins of his fallen brethren.

The woman whose mind he has taken up residence in has just fetched a vase of water from her father's well and is making the slow trek back home. Up the rubble and through the mortar, past dust and sand and more dust. Blotted edges of trees give her shade and cool her temple, and after several miles of walking through the harsh land, she sets down her vase and leans her back up against a tree. A moment of indulgence, a modicum of rest. Castiel knows if she were to be spotted, she would be punished for her laziness.

She is only twelve.

To the east stretches the well-worn path back to her village. To the south is an expanse of desert so vast, it would take an entire caravan three days to cross it.

Castiel must get to the other side.

He presses to the forefront of her thoughts, and lets his wings glide just beneath her eyelids, disrupting her impromptu afternoon nap.

"Hello?" she asks, jarring herself awake and peering around the area. It is barren.

She shrugs and leans back against the tree, and the angel brushes a wing more insistently inside of her thoughts. He cannot communicate with her in any other way because she isn't one of those special people. He cannot whisper because she might start bleeding from the ears.

This time when she startles awake, she doesn't speak, but instead furrows her brows and stares at the sky.

Castiel runs his ghostly fingers across each of her vertebrae, incites a shiver down her spine, and guides her with will alone to look out across the desert. She is compelled to leave all of her possessions behind and step out into the wilderness on a suicidal trip. She shakes her head and ignores the feeling.

It doesn't help.

The angel is insistent, beating his wings more forcefully against the back of her skull, giving her a rising headache that is only relieved when she looks towards the southern path.

"No," she mumbles when she stands. "I'll die."

He hates this, and he hates himself even more, but he can't leave Dean alone with Lucifer, he just _can't_.

He soothes her spirit, then, with fingers etching Enochian symbols into her mind. _It will be okay_, they say, and she moves forward unwillingly.

The girl will survive the trip there - Castiel has enough grace to sustain her body - but she will be dead the moment he leaves her.

And he must find Dean.

* * *

_There were no secrets in Heaven. What Michael knew, all the angels soon knew. God was working on a new project, and it was gonna be _big_._

_Most everyone seemed excited by the concept, and really, it was difficult not to be swept up in the swell of praise and jubilation that rang from the heavens. _God is working! God is working!_ The last time He had settled down to 'work on something', He had created, well, _existence_._

_So yes, Lucifer understood why there was much ado about this ambiguous 'project', but that still did not explain away the fact that he had been feeling rather odd as of late. He was curious, as everyone was curious, about what God had in store, but on the same token he was... something else entirely._

_The emotion hadn't been created yet. There was no way to name what coiled inside his chest and threatened to sweep over him like a sickly tremble._

_He ignored it. He had been doing that more and more often lately._

_Instead, he turned his attention to his brother, letting the sweep and glide of the other's grace calm and soothe tired nerves. The Lightbringer spent veritably every waking moment with Michael, and though that wasn't a very common thing amongst the Heavenly Host, Lucifer could see it written plain as day on Michael's face that the Archangel hardly minded._

_Their bond was deeper than blood. It was spirit._

_There was a courtyard in Heaven that served as a sort of training ground for the warriors of God, and set in the middle of this courtyard was an arena where swordsmen fought for sport, sometimes with an audience of bright beings, sometimes just for practice. The ring was worn dirt, red flecks glimmering in shades of brown, and was surrounded by a circular stadium of stone bleachers. Pillars were scattered about the area, perfectly symmetrical, acting as a sort of barrier between the audience and the fight below._

_Lucifer leaned against one of these such pillars, arms crossed, robe hanging limply across his thin body, and watched from the sidelines as his brother sliced and swayed to the rhythm of the song he had just taught him. Michael's sparring partner was fierce, certainly no lightweight, but really didn't stand much of a chance against the Archangel._

_Michael wasn't called the Swordsman for nothing, after all._

_They danced, wove around each other, both trailing beautiful designs in the dust with the tread of their feet. Lucifer focused on these designs, fascinated by the art created from a battle, but his attention was suddenly jerked back towards the fight when a clang of fire rang like thunder through the air._

_Metal beating against metal had a distinctive, bright sound, and most of the angels used traditional steel or iron swords to have their fun._

_But not his brother._

_Lucifer couldn't help but quirk his lips up in a half-smile at the sight of his older sibling spinning around a sword made of nothing but a great raging flame. The handle was light itself, shining like the sun; the blade was honed silver, polished red, bursts of orange and flares of gold. He swung the dazzling weapon to and fro, reaching out as if it were an extension of his own arm. His motions were fluid, alluring, as he danced the most dangerous dance known to their kind._

_The other angel held a sword similar, though the flame was not as large, and that mostly had to do with the willpower within him. Michael was a rock, solid and firm and confident, if not a little cocky. His sword answered in kind to his attitude - it was powerful, a force to be reckoned with._

_When two metal swords clashed, it rung like the pitch of a bell._

_When two flaming swords clashed, the sound was nothing short of a _roar_._

_Back and forth, here and there, they swung and chopped and sliced and diced. Michael jabbed forward and his sparring partner side-stepped the blow. The other angel swept his arm in a sideways arch and Michael jumped back just out of reach. Wings spread like frightening emblems, testaments to their power._

_The stranger's were grey, and they shook and rattled something fierce. Michael's were blinding white, but the shadow they cast seemed tinged in gold. His wingspan was a splash of morning colors, bright and grand and unbearably beautiful._

_It took Lucifer's breath away to watch him fight, to see his fury behind smiling lips, the concentration that furrowed his brow._

_A flap of wings, and soon Michael was up in the air. His initial ascent was quick and unexpected, leaving the other angel staring up at him in confusion. He did not stay in flight for long, jerking his wings to the side, then tilting his body and folding them to his ribcage to give him the kind of momentum he needed for a free-fall. The move was enacted swiftly, and the other angel had barely just enough time to raise his sword above his head in defense before spurts of flame clambered with his own blade and spit and hissed just above his head._

_Michael fell directly in front of him, his feet making an indention in the ground, his arms raised in vengeance and his lips parted in a snarl._

_The sight was magnificent, and just the thought of being on the receiving end of such glorious judgment brought a shiver to Lucifer's spine._

_The fight ended then. The other angel lost his footing and crumpled to the ground. He nearly lost his balance and toppled backwards, but Michael jerked his sword out of the way and caught his hand just in time, hoisting him upwards with a friendly smile on his face._

_Lucifer decided now was a good time to trot over._

_"Good match, Uriel," he heard upon arriving at his brother's shoulder, then peered over at Michael before letting his iridescently blue eyes fall on the other angel._

_"Uriel," he said as well, giving a slight tilt of his head in acknowledgment._

_Uriel smiled at Lucifer before shaking the hand that still held onto his own and whispering soft words of Enochian to make his sword lose its flame._

_"Lucifer," he said, sheathing his weapon in the scabbard at his side. "Always a pleasure. You came just in time to watch me let your brother win."_

_"_Let_ me win?" Michael barked out, clapping a hand on Lucifer's shoulder before letting out a raucous laugh. Uriel's eyes strayed towards the hand briefly, at the spot where both angels conjoined, before flickering back towards Michael's unreasonably blue eyes. "I have to fight you like a fledgling just to keep your precious grace intact!"_

_"I suppose you picked up your technique from a fledgling as well," Uriel shot back, a half-smile on his lips._

_"I still won," Michael said in sing-song, then wrapped his left arm fully around Lucifer's shoulders and lazily twirled his sword in his right._

_Uriel bowed his head in acknowledgment, then side-stepped the two brothers and threw Michael an amused look. "I won't go so easy on you next time."_

_Michael gave another laugh, then watched Uriel exit the sparring grounds and turned his full attention to his little brother._

_"So, what brings you to this side of Heaven today, Luc?"_

_"The same thing that brings me to this side of Heaven every day."_

_Lucifer looked pointedly at his brother, tilted his head, and Michael chuckled._

_"The choir boys are that bad again, huh? I thought your drink gave them perfect pitch, or something."_

_The Lightbringer's eyes were smiling, but he couldn't help but sigh._

_"It soothes their voices; it doesn't manipulate them."_

_"Huh." Michael gripped his brother's shoulder lightly and walked them over towards the bleachers. "Shame."_

_"You're insufferable," Lucifer said while sitting down._

_"You say that every time I see you," Michael remarked while settling down beside him._

_"I'm fond of the truth."_

_"You're fond of making me feel bad, is what you're fond of."_

_Lucifer couldn't help the hint of a smile that marred his otherwise stoic features. His brother took notice, but only nudged him on the shoulder and laughed again. Michael did that a lot - he was a rather merry angel to be so terribly vehement._

_"I want to learn the sword," the younger brother said suddenly, without pretense, and looked over at the other._

_Michael, at first, seemed confused. He thought perhaps he hadn't heard that right, because Lucifer, though glorious in his own right, was far from a warrior. He was more peace seeking than the dogs of Heaven, too genteel to dirty his hands with conflict, but the bright, hopeful look in his eyes caught and held the Archangel's attention._

_"Why?"_

_Lucifer turned away, let his eyes drift across the somehow glistening dirt that was scarred by the recent spar waged on it._

_"You look beautiful when you fight," he offered by way of explanation, and Michael, flattered, choked on a quick intake of air._

_"If you looked any more dazzling, Luc, I'd call you vain."_

_Something clenched in Lucifer's stomach when he glanced over and saw Michael's profile. The other angel leaned forward, set his elbows on his knees, threaded his fingers together, and laid his chin atop them._

_"Fine," he sighed, then glanced over at his younger brother and added almost reluctantly, "You will make a fine warrior."_

_Lucifer would prove as much, soon enough._


End file.
